A Coward’s Resolve
by Anonamewrites
Summary: A world has its rules no matter how free it may appear. In this world dyed red with blood, riddled with deceit, and stagnant with unending war; peace is lost to tongue. Those who whisper of it perish in the embrace of their ideals. “How can you, a village boy, possibly turn this land of misery into anything more than it already is?” Can a boy fight a man’s battle? “For her...?”


**Hello there my lovely readers! (Provided I have any, considering how new I am) My name is , and this is my first story. So... that's it for my introduction I guess... -awkward silence- *papers rustle in the background* Ah! I hope you enjoy my story, and try to bear with me through my struggles to construct conventional headings. *falls out of chair to avoid the awkward process of dismissing them self***

 **Disclaimer: I do not own the concepts nor do I own the characters within my story. Aside from my personal creations and additions, all of the assets belong to the copywriters. I gain nothing monetarily from the distribution of this piece of literature.**

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Surveying the area with an indifferent gaze became second nature to him. Decrepit structures looming over valleys of gore and slaughter; a very commonplace and picturesque illustration of what kind of world he had been born into. These had become less and less of a horrific scene each day he gazed upon the sea of red. Until one day, horror could not rear itself onto his face. He was numbed to the bloodshed.

Blue eyes scanned the bodies lying about the length of the shambled streets. He was a scavenger by nature, and the prior numbness gave him the strength to do so more efficiently. Picking out movement in the stillness of the dead was something he had to do often. Survivors could prove to be useful both dead and alive, provided you found them in the latter mentioned state.

While the ones that lie about dead have likely been picked clean of anything useful, he knew that the living had the benefit of consciousness, and by relation, innovation. To put it simply, the dead cannot hide their treasures, but the living have neither the qualms nor the impotence to follow the path of the latter. Thought can give rise to connivance.

His features softened as a weary sigh escaped his mouth.

sigh*

"I suppose a lecture is warrented this time," he muttered to himself.

It had been the boy's own decision to try reaping the aftermath of the battle. His father's words echoed in his ears "Those brutes don't believe in leaving loose ends, and a dead man cannot create them."

This was a fruitless endeavor and his father had told him so. Why had he persisted; going so far as running off by himself, giving into false hope, and failing to find a justification for his brazen defiance?

Thoughts such as these swirled around his conscience like storm clouds, triggering doubt and self-pity.

"Here I was thinking I knew how to organize my own scavenging operations..."

After rattling off a disheartened comment under his breath, the boy delved back into his search.

Body after body, some embracing rot while others appeared pristine, shared a common trait; death. This was a reality that whittled away at his self confidence with each corpse.

The smell of decay permeated the air, and served to further establish his prior observation's legitimacy; that not a single person here was alive.

Many hours passed, and the time of day changed

Meandering around aimlessly, the boy had given up on finding survivors in favor of feeding curiosity. Surveying the wreckage with a childish demeanor may have been favorable, had he not been accompanied by the dead.

The sun made its pass, shifting the blue vastness of sky through subtle changes of color. Inching its way to the east horizon, the ball of light pulled a hazy blanket of pinkish brilliance at its bow, overwhelming the previously aquamarine sky. Taking notice of the subtleties of the gentle scene change, the boy remove a small device from the rear pocket of his worn pants.

The object, which had been pestering him with a constant jab to his upper thigh for hours, now sat in his right palm. It was a small circular object that resembled a compass in shape and size, but differed from the prior in both function and color. It was a basic device at a glance, inlaid with a half wheel of glass beveled with gold that ran down the edges of the curved screen, forming a solid plate lacking glass. Under the glass at the top, sat a small rotating disk, painted on either half in differing colors. To the boy's knowledge it had the function of telling time, with a blue half marked with a yellow dot representing day, and a blackened half framing a crescent moon, night.

He shook the object with practiced motions before patiently allowing the small colored dial to settle. Wavering slightly, the small disk spun back and forth, slowing bit by bit, then landed flat in the device. A small nub in the center indicated it was dusk, black with only a bit of blue peeking out from the far right corner.


End file.
